In Out Of The Cold
by LoveChilde
Summary: Sherlock may be a brilliant detective, but he hasn't the sense to come in out of the rain and cold. Slash, Holmes/Watson


In out of the Rain

A/N: First, I don't own Holmes & Co., this version of them belongs to the BBC. I'm o0nly borrowing them. Story written at Joannie Milligan's request, she likes her brilliant detectives cold and wet. Also, she requested sex, so there is some (mild, really) porn later. Enjoy! Review!

It was dark outside; the wind was howling, as it had howled all week. It was a miserable London winter, and had been alternately raining and sleeting all day. Dr. John Watson was sprawled on the couch in the cozy living room of 221B Baker St., with a big bowl of popcorn on the table as well as several bottles of beer, one family sized bottle of iced tea and a selection of classic James Bond DVDs.

And Sherlock was, as usual, late.

On the one hand, he was supposed to've returned over half an hour ago, and normally John would be worried, but after several weeks of living with the man he'd gotten used to his inability to keep a schedule, and his inattention to other people's concerns regarding times, if they weren't also his own immediate concern. He could be punctual, if it was important enough. Usually, as in now, he just didn't care. John glanced at his watch again, shrugged, and switched the channel to some kind of game show. Yes, they'd agreed to have a movie night, but there was a lot of 'night' to go yet, and Sherlock rarely slept through a night anyway. They were in no hurry.

Still, when another half hour had gone John was starting to be a little concerned. He reached for his phone and texted Sherlock to see where he was. When no reply came in the next ten minutes, he sat up, thoughtful. and wondered whether he should try calling. Mrs. Hudson was away for a long weekend, and John didn't know who he could call. was also fairly sure that Sherlock would show up entirely fine and unaware of the hour, and he'd feel terribly foolish for worrying. Just when he told himself that, the door slammed open on a dramatically-timed crack of thunder, then slammed shut, and he jumped off the couch, nearly upsetting the popcorn.

"Jesus! Sherlock-what-?" He stopped, taking in the apparition-like creature before him, which was energetically dripping on the carpet and shivering but otherwise not doing much. "What the hell happened to you? Were you mugged?"

"N-n-no." Sherlock Holmes was completely drenched, from the toes of his boots to the top of his head, which was still dripping water, as was all the rest of him. His hair was plastered to his face, his lips almost blue with cold and his face very pale under small rivulets of water. "F-f-forgot m'wallet at home. N-n-no cash for taxi." He blinked slowly, looking dazed. "A-all b-b-bloody d-day." His teeth were chattering.

"All day?" John swore and shook himself, kick-starting himself into action since it seemed Sherlock was in no state to do anything for himself at the moment. "Damnit. Come on." He couldn't believe what an idiot Sherlock could be, for a brilliant man. "You haven't the common sense God gave a cat, do you? Why didn't you tell the taxi you'd pay when you got home?" He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and marched him to the bathroom, peeling off his coat as they went and throwing it on the floor to be taken care of later. "Take off your shoes and socks- hell, take everything off, you're soaked to the skin, aren't you?" The bare skin of Sherlock's hands and neck was icy, his fingers almost as blue as his lips. "Christ, you're heading right into pneumonia at this rate. Go on, get in the tub and lose the clothes."

Silently, still in a daze, Sherlock obeyed. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that this was mere physical discomfort, which he could of usually did ignore in favor of more intellectual concerns, but his mind was sluggish with cold. He'd been ignoring both cold and wet all day, since he'd gotten soaked walking out in the morning and hadn't managed to get completely dry all day. The hour-long walk in the rain and slush from the other side of London had been the final straw, and he could no longer ignore the physical. Besides, John sounded very firm and serious, and Sherlock thought he'd better obey. Frozen fingers fumbled with buttons and zippers and soon enough Sherlock was curled at the bottom of the tub, arms wrapped around his knees, bare except for his underwear and still shivering. With some presence of mind he reached up and twisted the tap, and couldn't stifle a moan as the cold water came out of the tap and landed on him. He could hardly be any wetter, though, and the water soon warmed. He knew enough not to let them get too hot and risk shocking his system. and simply let them run, still curled into a ball without even bothering to put the stopper in the drain.

"Ok there?" John returned, carrying several blankets and a large mug of tea. He was glad to see Sherlock had had enough presence of mind to undress and get the water going. He was also glad that he was a trained doctor, and used to looking at people he knew in various states of nakedness. He didn't even pause, didn't let himself, before putting everything down on the floor and kneeling by the tub. "Move over a bit, I'll put the stopper in." Sherlock obligingly moved over a fraction of an inch, and John was forced to gently push his foot aside. He was as skinny out of his clothes as he looked in there, he noticed. And he was still shivering. "Can you sit up for me?"

"Mm?" Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock unfolded himself, ending in something like a crouch but more upright than before. "Cold." He noted, almost pouting. "I'm cold."

"I know." John agreed, turning the water to slightly hotter and letting them fill the tub. "That's because you're an idiot who hasn't the sense to come in out of the rain. Where were you all day?"

"Around." He waved a hand vaguely. As sensation returned, his hands and feet were tingling very unpleasantly, pins and needles and stiff muscles protesting the abuse he'd heaped on them earlier. "Looked in on cases. Lavender Hill, and the Museum. Oh, and I looked something up at the library, of course, but that was first thing in the morning." So very, very long ago.

John swore again, quiet but heartfelt. All over the city, all bloody day, and it'd been raining steadily. "Didn't you have an umbrella?"

"Turned over in the wind." Sherlock had curled up again, bent over to get as much of himself into the hot water as he could. After a moment he uncurled, stretching out on his stomach in the water. "About around ten. No wallet, no way to get a new one. It- didn't seem important. Had to get to a scene before the rain wrecked it." John found that he was staring at Sherlock's back and shoulders, trailing his eyes down pale, smooth skin to where thin blue fabric covered a skinny but still well formed- he pulled his eyes away sharply and reminded himself to concentrate. There were more important things to take care of, as the hot water didn't seem to help all that much. "S-still cold." He said plaintively.

"Can't imagine why." John shook his head. "You're completely daft sometimes, you know? For a smart man, you're an idiot. Sit up again, let's get you warmed up on the inside as well." He pulled on Sherlock's bare shoulder and the man flinched away, as averse to touch as he usually was, but sat up eventually and managed to hold the mug with both hands without dropping or spilling it. "Drink." He sipped carefully, making a half agonized, half pleased face as the hot liquid slid down his throat. Then he screwed up his face.

"How much sugar did you put in there?" Sherlock normally had his tea unsweetened just because he couldn't be bothered to find the sugar (unlike his coffee, which required plenty of sugar to be palatable), but this was far, far too sweet.

"A lot. You need it right now- have you eaten today?"

"Hm?" A frown of concentration appeared, followed by a headshake. "Hadn't the time."

"Then you definitely need the sugar." John knew Sherlock could skip eating for days on end, but he was using up a lot of energy just trying to stay warm now, and the sugar would help.

"Drink." He repeated firmly, and Sherlock, looking deeply distasteful, obeyed slowly. In fact, he seemed to be doing everything more slowly than usual. When the tea was gone and the tub was almost full, John turned the water off. "Alright. Stay in there a minute, then we'll get you into bed." Again, his mind tries to wander where it shouldn't, and he redirects his thoughts with an internal head-slap. Again Sherlock looked confused.

"Bed?"

"Yes, bed. Where there are blankets, and maybe a hot water bottle if I can find one." John explained patiently.

"Uh. Don't have one. Accidentally melted it last April, 'sperimenting." It was clearly taking some effort to get long words out, and John groaned, frustrated.

"Of course you did. Ok, get up, come on." He tugged on Sherlock's arm until the younger man stood, arms wrapped around himself and back to shivering when the cooler air hit him. John threw a towel around his shoulders and started rubbing him dry, but found hands pushing him away.

"I can do it myself." Shorter words, it seemed, were less of a problem, and no matter how close to frozen Sherlock was, he still didn't enjoy being touched, especially not with a scratchy towel on cold-sensitized skin. He removed the towel from John's grasp and stepped out of the tub. "Um. Privacy?"

"Oh." John blushed a brilliant red. "Of course. I'll go fetch you something dry to wear?"

"Thanks." With a distant nod, Sherlock disappeared under the towel, hands already pushing the waistband of his soaked shorts down. John forced himself not to look, to leave the room and not indulge. He returned after a quick search in the clean laundry bag, freshly returned from the service they both used, carrying a pair of shorts, green this time.

"You don't have anything like sweatpants, do you?" He asked through the closed door.

"Hate sweating." Came the terse reply. The door opened a crack and a pale hand reached out, snatched the shorts, and disappeared again. "Why would I have pants to sweat in?"

"Why, indeed." Again John found himself sighing, for the millionth time, and promising himself that his next flat mate would be nice and normal. Dull, stupid, not at all interesting or brilliant or nice to look at or- why did he want a new flat mate, again? Never mind. "Come on, you need to get under some covers."

Sherlock looked less blue around the edges when he came out, a blanket that John had left in the bathroom wrapped around him, and he made a beeline directly to his bedroom, crawling into bed without a word and curling up under his own duvet and the blanket he already had. He looked exhausted and as unhappy as John had ever seen him. And he was still shivering.

"Still cold?"

Sherlock gave him a deeply irritated glare, implying he was a cosmic-scaled idiot, then closed his eyes, tired. John decided to go make some more tea. He gave the popcorn and the TV a wistful look as he went through the living room; they'd have to wait for another day, unfortunately. By the time he returned with another steaming mug, all he could see on the bed was a duvet-covered lump roughly the size and shape of a curled up adult. He patted the lump carefully. "I have some more tea if you'd like." Hearing a muffled negative, he put the mug down on the bedside table and sat down on the bed. Sherlock's head peeped out at him almost immediately, to protest this intrusion into his personal space, but he still looked too drawn and miserable to talk. 'You're not looking any better there, mate. Drier, maybe, not warmer."

"I'm not." Sherlock admitted, sounding uncomfortable and awkward. "Can't warm up." He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, then seemed to brace himself before talking again. "Studies- have shown that body heat can- can help. Sharing it, I mean." To John's extreme surprise, he looked like he was blushing a little. Maybe it was just a fever starting, though. He nodded slowly, remembering sharing a sleeping bag with several others in the cold desert nights in Afghanistan, sharing body heat in an entirely un-sexual, survival-oriented way. He hadn't thought that Sherlock's self preservation instinct, which seemed not to exist most of the time, would override his need for privacy.

"I've done it before. Nights get cold in the desert." John tilted his head, looking at his flat mate curiously. "Would you like to try?"

Sherlock nodded hesitantly. "Uh, it would be best if- if you were-" he cleared his throat, "-clothes get in the way." He ducked his head under the covers again, which allowed John to smile very slightly, wondering whether Sherlock was only interested in getting warm again, or possibly taking advantage of the opportunity which presented itself so neatly. He shucked trousers and shirt, but in a moment of perversity left his socks on- and his shorts, not wanting to move too fast, and still not entirely certain that Sherlock meant what he thought he meant. When he slid under the covers and carefully felt his way towards the curled lump he was grateful for the socks, as Sherlock's feet were freezing. The rest of him didn't seem too warm yet, either. Well, that could be changed...

"Better?" He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, bare skin on bare skin, and felt muscles trembling. He wondered how much would be too much, too fast, too close. This could end up very frustrating for both of them, if Sherlock bolted. Awkward as hell, too. Maybe it'd be better to just act like sharing body heat was all this was, and let Sherlock himself make the move to change things, if he was up to it and interested. So John simply lay there, arms around his flat mate, pressed full-length against him but motionless, concentrating on thinking warm thoughts. Not hot, mind you, just...warm. He's not tired yet, not by a long shot, but after about ten minutes he thinks Sherlock must have fallen asleep. He's too still and too silent, but no longer trembling, which is an improvement on several fronts. John doesn't want to move, to break this silent closeness they have going, but his right arm falls asleep and he shifts, just enough to free it. Sherlock mutters a protest and presses closer, curling into him, his face against John's shoulder suddenly. His hair's still wet, sticking to John's neck. And there's definitely hardness pressed against John's stomach. John swallowed hard. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?" Muffled into his shoulder, vibrating, breath moist on his skin. John felt his stomach churn, as if his blood didn't know whether to rush to his face or two feet down from it. Apparently, there was enough to do both. "Warmer." Sherlock explained. "Helping."

"Oh. Good. Uh-" Stay put or shuffle back? Any second now Sherlock would notice and-

With another forward shift, Sherlock rubbed their erections together. John shuddered and bit his lip hard to stay still. Another forward shift, almost a rocking motion, and finally Sherlock seemed to notice John was in some kind of distress. "Should I stop?" Whispered directly into his ear, warm tickling breath. John groaned quietly.

"N-no." It wasn't that he wasn't interested, in an abstract kind of way, but he'd never expected anything to happen, certainly not like this. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'm cold." Sherlock suddenly sounded like his usual, rational self. "Friction and closeness help. And we're both almost naked anyway. And you've been staring at me for three weeks now, it's distracting." This was almost enough to kill off whatever arousal John had worked up, but then Sherlock adds "Also, you're not bad looking and I'm horny and sex would make me feel better. I predict it'll make you feel better as well. Sex is better than a movie."

Well, John couldn't argue with that particular logic. Not with Sherlock's hand down his shorts proving that he knew exactly what to do down there. He groaned again, slightly louder, and slid his hands down to cup Sherlock's ass. "You're too damn skinny."

"Not a good time to complain." Sherlock was obviously enjoying the touch, though, pushing John's shorts entirely down and out of the way and letting his hands roam more freely. He definitely knew what he was doing there, but this was hardly the time to ask where he'd learned, wasn't it? He was a grown man, obviously he'd had some experience...John gasped and arched his back, moving his hands to reciprocate.

It wasn't exactly poetry in motion. In fact, it was like most physical things with Sherlock, a little awkward, off-kilter, with elbows and knees where they really shouldn't have been, but Sherlock has long, delicate fingers and showed a single minded focus John could appreciate, and he himself was no stranger to shared hand jobs, so they both managed a relatively brief but enjoyable encounter. Afterwards, it was Sherlock who got up and left, which John found strange in that momentary disorientation right after a climax, seeing as it was his bed and all. He returned moments later with a wet washrag, apparently unconcerned that he was still naked.

"Like sex, hate the aftermath." He explained shortly, cleaning John off with neat, economical motions and checking the bed for a wet spot. They'd been close enough to avoid one, happily. Smiling, Sherlock rejoined John under the covers. "I'm still a little chilly."

"I'll be hugely surprised if you don't wake up with a bad cold tomorrow." The touch aversion seemed to be gone, and John pulled him close again.

"I have to agree, all the signs point to it." Sherlock nodded and shrugged. "Good think I know a good doctor."

"Yes- quite." John decided to take the chance before they both fell asleep. "Sherlock- have you ever done thing before?"

The detective pushed him away so he could glare at him. "Of course I have." He scoffed. "I've done a great many things for the sake of research." And many others in a drugged haze, but John didn't need to know about that yet. Maybe never.

"Oh." And suddenly John wanted to wilt and sink through the bed and die, because of all the things he wanted to be, one of Sherlock's experiments was about the lowest on the list other than 'dead'. He pushed himself away, feeling sick to his stomach. "That's a shitty thing to say, Sherlock."

"What? Why?" In Sherlock's defense, this time he actually understood what he'd said wrong, after a moment of silent, injured glaring from John, and his eyes widened in alarm. "Oh- you think I'm- right now? Really, John?" Not his looked disbelieving. "Don't be any more dense than you have to be. I'm half frozen and already running a bit of a temperature, it's hardly the time to experiment." Although it wasn't a bad idea, good thing he hadn't thought of this earlier, even though he knew he could've lied, if he'd had to. He was just happier not having to lie about it. "I'm allowed to do some things just because they're fun. Or rather, because I think they'll be fun. Uh- was it? For you? Because I rather liked it."

John struggled to accept Sherlock's words at face value, because they were at least pleasant to believe. Besides, he didn't think anybody could've gone through the day they'd just had, plus an orgasm, and still be able to lie effectively. He released his pent up breath in a huff. "Yes, it was fun. And you're warmer, at least."

Sherlock smirked smugly. "I'm more than warm. I'm hot."

"Oh, shuttup." John slapped his arm lightly. "Go to sleep, the sooner you do the faster you'll wake up sick and then be able to get over it."

"It doesn't work that way." Sherlock protested. "You're a doctor, you ought to know."

"I am a doctor." John agreed, "And I'm saying, let's get you back to normal as quickly as we can, so we can see if this is still fun when you aren't chilled to your bones." He suggested this quickly, before he could change his mind about wanting another go. It wasn't because Sherlock was a man, but because- well, John had a vague idea that he would be a very difficult lover. But one or two fun handjobs did not a lover make, did it?

"Oh." Sherlock processed this idea, and closed his eyes tightly. "Ok."

"Ok?"

"Shh. I'm sleeping. So we can have another go again soon." He explained, and John grinned.

"Gotcha."

Sherlock pressed against him again, but he really was fading fast into sleep, so the chance of a second go that night didn't look high. Still, it was a start. John held him, and wondered what the morning would bring. Well, other than an ill, tetchy detective.


End file.
